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Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first lov'd a cloud, Ixion.
Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex can'st shew What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle ? Some few vapours thou may'st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reins and nobler heart Can'st nor life nor heat impart.
Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn, Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than before All bis panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of thee meant: only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformed god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.
Scent to match thy rich perfume
Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foyson, Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite
Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. Twas but in a sort I blam'd thee; None e'er prosper'd who defam'd thee; Irony all, and feign'd abuse, Such as perplext lovers use,
At a need, when, in despair
Or, as men, constrain’d to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite,
And their hasty wrath let fall,
For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, TOBACCO, I Would do any thing but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she, who once hath been A king's consort, is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state, Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style relain, A right Katherine of Spain ; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarr'd the full fruition